


Provisions

by battle_cat



Series: Fury Road Ficlets [9]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Guilt, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: Max runs.For the prompt "Drink me" (one character drinking to or with another), Max/Furiosa.





	

He doesn’t remember how he convinced them to let him down on the lift. Doesn’t remember taking the bike, or what he said, or if she tried to stop him, just that there was a baby screaming, screaming and he had to run _GO_ _**NOW.**_

When he becomes conscious of something other than the white roar of panic he is at least half a day’s ride away from the Citadel. The sun is low and his throat is burning with alkaline dust.

He pulls the bike over in the lee of some rocks. The shaking in his limbs doesn’t really register until the rattle of the engine cuts off, but when he swings off the bike he sits down sudden and heavy in the sand, head spinning. Panic or hunger or both, who knows?

There had been a baby. Dag’s baby, wailing with the insistence of a hungry newborn, and he can’t, he can’t--

He swallows and his throat clicks. His lips are crusted with grit, and now that the wind and the rumble of the engine are gone he can feel the sick headache behind his temples. He can’t remember packing any supplies. But then, he can’t remember a lot of things, so--

He heaves himself to his feet, waiting a moment for the dark spots to recede from his vision before opening the supply bag closest to him.

Tucked neatly inside are two full canteens and a ration pack of lizard jerky and hard bean and vegetable bars, the kind that last forever on the road.

He checks the bag on the other side of the bike and finds more bars, a leather bladder full of water, ten shotgun shells and a Glock magazine. And then, tucked away in a corner, a handful of delicate orange slivers. Dried Citadel peaches.

They’re wrapped in a scrap of cloth that once was white but has long since been stained dark with motor oil, grease, a faded smear of what might be blood. It’s been dirtied and washed clean many times, but the mica from wiped-away Imperator paint still glitters.

He braces himself against the seat of the bike, and the wave that washes over him could be shame, that she knew he’d run. Or it could just be hunger and dehydration.

He grabs a bar and a canteen and sinks down in the hollow of the rocks. Raises the canteen to his lips and drinks.


End file.
